A Bogan Reads A Book (A Billion Times)

Today I have the tedious task of bringing to you my favourite books, movies and songs. I say tedious because this list will most likely be extremely short, boring and predictable.

Once again, I will totally lose some bogan cred when I confess that I have never even read the 50 Shades Of Grey trilogy. Is it even a trilogy? No idea. I know. Shocking, right? How can I call myself a bogan?

Likewise, I've never touched any of the Twilight series or The Hunger Games either.

My love of books began predictably enough with good old smashing Enid Blyton. It was quite a shock to discover that the woman who created The Magic Faraway Tree, The Famous Five series and many other books, all of which I devoured as a child, was, in fact, rather horrid in real life and not the sweet, whimsical person one would have imagined. Sigh. I guess that is why we love escaping into fiction. Reality SUCKS.

Following my escapades up The Faraway Tree, where I seem to have permanently left my brain, I read Anne Of Green Gables and the whole 'Anne' series. A new obsession began. She made me proud to be a ranga. And proud to wear puffed sleeves. Shut up. It was the 80's.

But surely my most overwhelming book obsession came in the early 90's with the publication of an authorised biography about The Carpenters called The Carpenters: The Untold Story by Ray Coleman.  I read it a few billion times. This was riding on the coat tails of a similar obsession with a God awful made for TV movie  about Karen Carpenter, imaginatively titled The Karen Carpenter Story.

One of the most curious things about that TV movie, apart from the absurd amount of times I was able to watch it, was the fact that they had apparently gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that certain details in the film were supposedly accurate, so they had used The Carpenters real clothes, instruments, cars and filmed certain scenes in their real home. Then, after doing all that, the actress who played Karen, Cynthia Gibb, wore the most ridiculous, fake looking wigs throughout. Weird. Yet I watched. Then I watched it again. And again. Just as I had read that Coleman bio again and again. Maybe I was hoping it would end differently if I read it just one more time. Nope. She still died in the end. Every. Single.Time. *sobs*

Bad wig alert. As well as bad acting, bad script..and a truly
bad ending. Sigh.

Then, in 2010 yet another bio about Karen came along which emphasised how much the previous Ray Coleman one, (and The Karen Carpenter Story) had been sugar coated and white washed. I realised that I had readthe previous book so many times looking for something that wasn't there. What Karen was really like. I felt like I got that from this book, so it's now my new favourite.

Which brings me to my favourite songs. You'll never guess in a million years what they are. No way. Okay, I'll tell you.

Carpenters ones. What a shock.

 I love this live performance of Rainy Days And Mondays. And weren't the 70's groovy?

Oh okay, their songs were a bit cheesy. But, THE VOICE. Except this one. Cutting edge stuff.

The song. The accompanying film clip, with all the planets and spaceships that make Star Wars look like Pigs In Space. The green satin jump suit. Classic. Shut up.

I also love Barbra Streisand songs and movies. Which is odd, because I don't really like people particularly, or think that people who need people are the luckiest people in the world. Not really. People are the WORST. I'll still listen to Le Babs sing it, though.  Nothing but the best for this bogan.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided.

Do you have any book or movie obsessions? Or favourite songs?

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Bogan For Hire

The Lounge Lizards have us talking about careers and jobs this week, which is timely, as I happened to come across my old resume tucked away in a cupboard a few weeks ago. Upon perusing this ancient epistle, I was sincerely astonished.  Amazed, in fact. How it is that I never set the whole career world on fire with that thing I will simply never know.  I mean, apparently I could answer the phone and everything. Those are some serious skills right there.

Don't worry, if that sucker rings I know EXACTLY what to do.

 

This answering the phone ability certainly came in handy in THE WORST JOB I'VE EVER HAD. Which was in a call centre. Enough said, right?

It was a call centre for a major NSW Insurance Company and Road Side assistance concern. Let's just call them NR NO WAY. Their commercials would have you believe that they are exceedingly helpful to people. They probably are if you are broken down and need assistance. However, other than the exciting moment I actually spoke to Anthony Warlow when he called one day, I didn't find it find very helpful to my mental health working there.

 If ever I have to call them in present times I still have traumatic flashbacks to when I worked there. It was approximately 16 years ago since I left. It still haunts me. I sometimes have appalling nightmares that I am back there, with my head phones on and an obnoxious car dealer is shouting at me "ALPHA, ROMEO, FOXTROT, BRAVO, 137865 VICTORY, QUATRO!!"

Yeah, I didn't know what that meant either. My skin is crawling just thinking about it. Then there were the wonderful things we had there called Performance Reviews. My performance wasn't so sterling apparently. Hmph. Hard to believe with such an outstanding resume.

In addition to having the tremendous skill of answering the phone, one of the tasks I mastered in my role as an Assistant Library Technician at the State Library Of NSW many years ago, was the opening and sorting of mail. Impressive.  I simply don’t know how I never ended up actually becoming the State Librarian. 

Also, these skills were only the tip of the iceberg of my extraordinary ability. Evidently, I could also do filing and place bar code stickers on books!!  Such incredible attributes in one person!  Oh, and I could also shelve the books, use the photocopier and write up order forms!  I know. It’s just too much. No wonder I never achieved a permanent position in a library.  I was just too damn good.  Ahem.

Yep, I am ALWAYS doing this in my spare time.
I can even do this while eating cake. Or typing. Too easy.

If my stupendous skill list wasn’t quite enough awesomeness to take in, I was also intensely fascinating away from work. I had listed my interests as:  Reading, writing, typing, yoga, dogs and cooking. Interesting, since at the time I never managed to even write a shopping list, I accidentally murdered my dog , have dubious cooking skills and wouldn’t know a downward dog from a dagwood dog.  And since when is typing an interest? Typing??  I might as well have put down stamp collecting to make myself seem even more cutting edge.

Of course it has now been years, okay, decades, since I used all of those fabulous afore mentioned job skills. But, this is fine, because during  that time I have not been simply resting on my laurels. No siree. I have, in fact, added many more skills to my repertoire.

I completed a Statement of Attainment in something called Computing Skill For The Office to add to the Library Practice Associate Diploma that I completed more than 20 years ago.  In doing so I achieved a monumental typing speed of – wait for it- 33 standard words per minute!!   STUNNING! Skills, people. Skills.  Especially taking into account that typing was supposedly one of my interests.  Snorts.

I’m also mollified to realise that I have lovingly kept and archived my old High School written references should I ever decide to bring my brilliance back into the workforce. They are obviously essential in this day and age when prospective employers can Google  you instantly, and the only way that an employer would know that I was punctual and always had the necessary equipment required for lessons. That sentence alone is clearly enough to have me hired immediately. Ditto the fact that my appearance at High School was apparently neat and tidy. I’m also impressed that I had tact and diplomacy in my dealings with people. This trait was mentioned in both my Year 10 and my Year 12 references, when they obviously couldn’t think of an original way to put a positive spin on the fact that I never uttered more than three words during all of high school. Maximum.

 But even taking everything that I have already mentioned into consideration this is still only the tip of the iceberg in regard to how brilliant and employable I am. I mean, I have so many other untapped skills and abilities that I would need to add to an already overwhelmingly wonderful resume. They would include the following:

·         I know the words to every single Carpenters song ever recorded.

·         I also know the words to quite a lot of ABBA songs.

·         Ditto Barbra Streisand songs

·         I am completely mute and silent at least 99.9% of the time. You know, the whole ‘tact and diplomacy’ thing. This is a helpful attribute in the workplace, because haven’t we all had work colleagues that we wish would just shut the fuck up?

·         I can eat my entire body weight in cake on a daily basis.  Essential for all the birthday celebrations that might take place in a busy office in any given week.

·         I have Ass Burgers Aspergers and everybody knows that all Aspie people are genius’s. Just because I haven’t figured out exactly what my genius is yet, doesn’t mean I’m not one.  I must be.  Of course I am. Shut up.

·         I have the singular ability to stare into space vacantly for long periods of time. An intense form of daydreaming meditation that makes me much more relaxed and focused at forgetting  completeing my work.

·         Clearly I am an amazing writer and this blog is a testament to that, having won the obscure but prestigious Best Blog Featuring Bogans Award.

·         Oh alright, I made that last bit about the award up. But, if there really was such an award OF COURSE I would win it, right?

·         I can make up all this boring as batshit bogan bullshit. Brilliant. And clearly I rock alliteration.

Right then. There we have it. The blinding brilliance that is me.  I may as well stop there or we could literally just be here for DAYS.  I’m off to re-write my resume.  I’m sure the perfect job for a mute, cake- eating, Carpenters obsessed Aspie who can type 33 words per minute and sort mail is out there. Don’t bother applying. It’s MINE. So ner.

Linking up with The Lounge, which is being hosted this week by Kim from Falling Face First.

 

 

Is your resume as brilliant as mine?  What incredible skills do you possess?  And what was your worst EVER job?

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An Idyllic Day

Long ago and far away in the fun and fabulous days of our former bogan existence, life was full of exciting bogan adventures. These adventures often included the wonderful, idyllic days we referred to as our 'Family Fun Days'. This was using the word fun in the same sense of the expression 'Fun Run'. Oxymoron, anyone?  When I remember those grand and glorious days my eyes become misty and I am filled with bittersweet nostalgia.

I recall waking on a Sunday morning feeling zombie like and ancient refreshed and energetic.Micky Blue Eyes hands me a lovely, frothy vegetable juice fresh from the juicer. With beaming eyes he  then utters the fateful words:

"Why don't we go out today for a Family Fun Day?"

Evidently making me drink those juices isn't quite enough torture. The boys greet this suggestion with all the enthusiasm they usually reserve for doing their homework and cleaning their rooms.

On my ideal day I wouldn't wake up to this

"NOOOOO!!" Mr 11 is wild eyed and frantic, while Mr 9 can barely manage a low, pitiful moaning of dull despair. There was no escape. Once Micky Blue Eyes made up his mind we were doomed.

Previous outings had involved driving somewhere in the car. Now, however, we had discovered the "Family Fun Day'.This meant we could purchase a train ticket from Boganville into the city for a family and it would only cost around ten bucks, Mick decided this was a bargain that these non cashed up bogans couldn't miss.

Reluctantly, I showered, dressed and we bundled into the car to drive to the train station.

"Have you got the pram and everything?" I asked as Mick reversed the car from the driveway. He assured me we did and we set off. We parked a block or so away from the station and walked there, avoiding eye contact with the usual unsavoury types loitering around the station negotiating drug deals or whatever it is that they do there. Not sure.  Boganville. So classy. Sigh.

Upon boarding the train, I was assigned to 'stroller sit' while Mick ventured down into the carriage to attempt the impossible. Make three boys with raging testosterone, including a hyperactive three year old sit still and be quiet for the duration of the journey. Good luck with that, I thought as I happily assumed position next to the stroller which was laden with all the essentials for a family day out.

Several minutes passed as the train hurtled along the tracks. At the next stop two young dudes boarded the train and I eavesdropped on their interesting conversation about weed, until they got off a few stops later, possibly to score more weed. Not sure.

At this point, Mick and the boys clambered back up from below. Mr 8 needed to blow his nose. I scrambled in my handbag for a tissue, but came out empty-handed.

"Oh, can't I just wipe it on my shirt?" he wailed.

"NO!" we both shouted, simultaneously. Thankfully, he refrained. We had to resort to using a piece of paper. So elegant.

It was at this point that we realised we had forgotten Mr 3's bag with the change of clothes. Just in case. We could only cross our fingers and pray that he didn't present us with what is known in the Bogan Box as a Mt. Tomah Moment. This refers to the time we went to the Mt. Tomah Botanic Gardens for a picnic and Mr 11 who was then Mr 2 decided to poop his entire body weight, and we had forgotten the nappy bag. Charming.

We finally disembarked at Central station, upon discovering that the train lines were closed, so we would have to walk all the way to the Botanic Gardens. Immediately, the hustle and bustle of the city was completely over-whelming for this Aspergirl. I pondered with some wonder, how I had ever managed to work there a decade ago.

Plodding on , we schlepped up George Street. The boys spotted a Maccas in the distance like a mirage. However there seemed to be even more ratbags and feral bogans loitering around George Street than there were back in our beloved Boganville, so we pressed on until we found another Maccas where the boys filled up on nuggets and fries. After this, we strolled through a rather snazzy and upmarket shopping mall, where I proceeded to go into full on Aspie sensory overload from all the bright shinyness.  Fluorescent lights bouncing off shiny floors, garish Christmas decorations added to the overall effect which resulted in me feeling nauseous.

Feeling sick and light-headed we trudged back past Gucci and Prada.I pondered the fact that even if I had the bucks to shop there, I couldn't stand all the lights and brightness. But I guess that's what online shopping if for, should I ever win lotto.  Eventually we reached the Botanic Gardens where we sat and watched the boats sailing by on the harbour, for a blissful half hour. Mr 3 chased birds around. The other two boys whined that they were bored, shattering our short lived bliss. So it was on to Chinatown, where we had some Chinese food.

While there, Mr 8 exclaimed loudly "Why are there so many Chinese people here? It's FREAKING ME OUT!!"

Awkward. Ahem.

We purchased some fresh fruit at the markets before heading back to Boganville, relieved that yet another Family 'Fun' Day had finally finished.  Just like so many previous ones, which included:

• Visiting Cronulla Beach. It pissed rain.
• Visiting the Blue Mountains. Froze our bogan bums off.
• Visiting the Central Coast by train. We spent most of the day on the train, where we also had to change a 'Mt. Tomah' style nappy while in a cramped country train vestibule trying to hang on for dear life. So. Much. Fun.

I must confess those Family Fun Days were not exactly my ideal day out. We did manage to come close to something resembling my ideal day out recently. During the school holidays we decided to drive to Megalong Valley. On the way up the mountain we stopped at a cake shop. CAKIES! Then at a Vinnies. BOOKS! A day that involves books, cakies and minimum stress is my ideal day out. After this we went for a bush walk, then went to the Megalong Valley Tea Rooms where we had scones with jam and cream. More cakies! Sort of. Not really. But still good. It was a relaxing day out for a change. Still, I can't help feeling like my ideal day at the moment wouldn't really be a day out at all, but a day in.

Alone. Just me, my books, cakies and Carpenters.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

 

What is your ideal day out? Or would you prefer a day in, like me?

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Fifty Shades Of Purple And The C Word

On Tuesday I attended a group called Fifty Shades Of Purple at the Women’s Health Centre here in Boganville. I was most nervous upon leaving the house, and  barely awake as I was expected to be there at the indecent hour of 9.30am. The idea that a busy mother of 3 should be awake and functioning at this time is preposterous. Ahem.  I mean that’s what ABC kids is for, right? So I can sleep in.  Never mind that they have to be at school before 9.20am. Ridiculous .

To make matters worse there appeared to be no reserved car space for me directly out the front with a sign saying RESERVED FOR VANESSA CONNOR. Rude, I tell you. I had to circle the surrounding streets for a full 10 minutes with some arsehole tailgating me, frantically looking for a spot.  There wasn’t one to be found, so I was reduced to parking several streets away in the RSL car park. I reflected that it was odd that we were not members of the local RSL. Our bogan cred is in question.

Breathlessly, I finally arrived at the centre, late of course and was ushered into a room FULL of scary people.  There was at least four of them!! As well as the group leader/coordinator, who is also my counsellor.  Oh and there was a cute little dog, belonging to one of the ladies.  He was some sort of guide dog for PTSD victims which I thought was a smashing idea. And, yes, I should really stop reading Enid Blyton books at my age. 

Anyhoo, we all introduced ourselves  then the session went on to discussing negative self-talk. Apparently I am not the only person who has some crazy bitch talking shit to me constantly in my head. Who knew?

I also realised that I do ALL OF THESE THINGS:

·         Catastrophising

·         Exaggerating the negative and discounting the positive

·         Mind-reading

·         The ‘shoulds’

I have come to strongly dislike the word should and frankly find it most unhelpful in life.  Honestly that negative Nelly in my head with her catastrophic  crap and should, should, should all the bloody time just needs to SHUT RIGHT UP.

After we pondered on all this it was time for some morning tea, which involved coffee and biscuits which was  nearly as good as cake. Not  quite, mind you but the budget probably doesn’t stretch to cakies so I’ve made a mental note: bring cake. Mind you if I actually bake any cake to take with me it will probably be a miracle. (I actually did bake muffins and jam drops, but they have already been eaten. Oops.)

Then, just as I was beginning  to relax into the group, relieved that there would in fact be no bondage involved  in a group named Fifty Shades Of Purple, came the dreaded C word.

CRAFT

I quit Playgroup partly because I was so traumatised by craft. I never wanted to hear the ominous C word again.

We had to make a ‘Kind Card’ for ourselves.  I drew a dodgy flower on the front, then wrote BE KIND TO YOURSELF inside it and coloured in one side with crayons. Clearly I am an artistic genius who has somehow been over looked. The fact that Mr 4 could draw something MUCH better is irrelevant.

The strange thing was that I did find it oddly calming. So perhaps there is something to this craft caper after all. I survived it without feeling like chaining myself up to be whipped would actually be less painful.

Soon after this, the group was finished for the day and I filed out to wait for my next appointment. One of the other ladies was waiting for a taxi and we chatted and discovered we only live a couple of streets away so I offered her a lift for next week. There are six more weeks. I’m looking forward to it.

Yes, even the craft. (Shut up Randa and Poss).

Do you attend any groups? Enjoy craft? Do you also have a crazy bitch in your head telling you shit?

 

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Fashion Fails: Bogan Style

Hello all! Another Monday. Another Confession. This week Kirsty has asked us to share our most humorous post. I wasn't sure which one of mine to choose considering they are all  pretty ordinary comedy gold but judging from the comments, this one seemed to elicit a few laughs. So for the second time around, I present my Bogan Fashion Fails. You're welcome!

This week the illustrious Lounge Lizards have us talking fashion. It tends to strike me that 90 percent of the fashion I spot on the telly or in magazines looks completely and utterly hideous even on tall, slim, stunning models.  I shudder to think what it might look like on me. Perhaps it's a blessing that I can never afford it anyway. Therefore I've cultivated a certain look and style of my own. I like to refer to it as - Bogan Chic.

Once upon a time I delighted in clothes shopping.  This was some 20 years ago when I could dress in clinging black lycra, unperturbed by the thought of any bumps and bulges. Or a tragic combo of hot pants and doc martins. Observe.

 

The only snap I could find of
this alluring attire appears to
have something stuck on it
which I couldn't get off, but you
get the idea.

 

Actually this is not strictly true, as  I used to worry unduly about being supposedly 'fat'. Pah! I didn't know the meaning of the word.  I have since discovered it though.

Anyway, it's always interesting, when I go to the local shopping mall here in Boganville.  The are many badly dressed, unattractive people there.  I fear I am one of them.  Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and my fears are realised.

I notice that my backside is astonishingly large.  This always comes as a tremendous shock, as when I dress, I tend to only look at myself front on to avoid reality.  Side on, I also look distinctly pregnant.

Then, inevitably, some old dear, at least 85 in the shade, will hobble past on a walking frame, wearing an identical shirt to mine.  Millers.  Size 16. On Sale.  This once horrified me. The fact that I no longer care is evidence that:

a) I  am getting old

b) I am getting fat (oh okay, I already am fat), and

c) I am too broke to have any choice in the matter, anyway.

 

Other Bogan Chic Tit Bits. Or is it Tid bits? Or is it not even an expression at all? Who knows. Let's just call them Bogan Fashion Tips then, shall we? Fine. They are:

• I mostly wear black, as I am a fatty boombah.  Sadly no amount of black can disguise my double chin.  Okay, chins.
• I don't  do pink, frilly or sequins. Ugh.
• I don't do white. I am fat, fair skinned and a Mother. Enough said.
• Jeans are over rated. Skinny jeans are probably single handedly responsible for many an eating disorder. Not to mention how inconvenient they are if you are ever in the habit of say, for example, sitting down. Which I am. Frequently. Which is probably half of the reason that I cannot wear skinny jeans. The other half of the reason is that, when I am sitting, I am usually eating cake. Meh, details.
• I simply detest bras. Luckily I was always small breasted, so therefore I was able to get away with not wearing them for many years. Those days are over. Now that I have droopy National Geographic boobs, I need the best push-up bra I can get my hands on. That, or a boob job. Hard to figure out which is the more expensive and painful of the two.
• Trackies and polar fleece jumpers and jackets are the most unchic, unflattering, daggy clothes ever known to the human race. They are also the most toasty warm when I'm freezing my butt off, as well as being affective contraception. So, who cares. I am a bogan after all.

 

Now, onto some more of my Fashion Fails. Check these out. And while we're at it, whoever stole my twenty something body, can you please return it. Pronto. Obviously the fact that it has disappeared to be replaced by something resembling a Teletubby has nothing to do with the afore mentioned cake eating. No way. It must be some sinister type invasion of the body snatchers super natural thing. Only possible explanation.

Me, as Morticia. That's my Dad hovering
protectively next to me, possibly reluctant to let
me leave the house dressed like that.

And now for something completely different.

My 'Laura Ashley just
threw up all over me' look. Lovely.

 

Continuing the floral theme, I appeared in public wearing this.

The early 90's look of
high waisted jeans and
a body suit. Floral of
course. So sweet. A
poodle perm completed the look.

A gorgeous floral blouse, primly buttoned
right up to my throat. My Mum's spoon
collection in the background. Nobody collects
spoons anymore. Or wears hideous floral blouses.
Sad, really.

This next one is especially for Mumabulous. She is not the only one who could rock an emerald green taffeta frock.

Dressed like a Bridesmaid, but not actually
a Bridesmaid. I was just ducking out to the
shops for some milk.

When I met Micky Blue Eyes, the bogan chic tradition continued unabated. This one speaks for itself.

Micky Blue Eyes and I wearing
clothes that appear to have been
made from hotel bedspreads or
curtains. His shirt, my pants.

Following this lovely 'Best Western Bogan Chic' style, I went onto my next

stunning look. Wearing clothes that resembled table cloths. Not to mention ridiculous bloody hats. But I'm a ranga, I have no choice! Especially when visiting places like Darwin, which is where that shot is taken.

 

 

Breathtaking Darwin scenery. Not so breath-
taking shirt and hat.

 

 

 

 I had to survive the heat somehow. Similarly, when it was cold I had this absurd notion that I should keep warm and wear silly jumpers.

Stupid jumper, leggings and
boots and a stupid expression
on my face. The wombat attached to
my leg was also a unique fashion accessory

It's hard work being
this stylish.

Or an attractive combo of a turtle neck and - wait for it, a pinafore. I couldn't find a full length shot. But you get the idea.

Of course. with that track record of fashion flair, once I became a Mum I was really onto this whole 'Yummy Mummy' thing. As you can see, below.

At my bogan best. Comatose in trackies, clutching
my similarly comatose infant.

 Imagine my delight to discover that Miller's currently has a sale on, so I can continue the bogan tradition of bedraggled frumpiness. I like the sound of that. Bedraggled frumpiness. A shame that the sight of it isn't so becoming.

Linking up for The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Slapdash Mama Sarah.

 

Also linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

 

 

 

What are your most memorable 'fashion fails'?

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I Thought This Bogan Would Be Better At Stuff By Now

I am 42. And I thought I'd be better at this thing called Life by now. Which reminds me of that meme I've seen floating around Facebook, which says something like: I miss being the age when I thought I'd have my shit together by the time I was the age I am now. Yeah, THAT.

There are so many things I thought I'd be better at by now. Such as:

Talking/Communicating

Growing up I always believed that I would magically 'come out of my shell' one day, just like everybody kept telling me I SHOULD. I MUST. I felt certain  there was a bubbly, outgoing chatterbox inside me just busting to get out. Eventually it would happen and I'd suddenly find myself sprouting verbal diarrhoea with the best of them. I was going to be extremely witty, droll and just plain LOUD. The anti-thesis of this mute, shy, introverted girl. I would shine. Stand out in a crowd for once, instead of being instantly forgettable. More than twenty years later, it hasn't happened. I am still the quietest person in the room, wherever I am. People still say things like "You're the quietest person I've ever known." Worse still, they will sometimes even talk about me as if I'm not even there. It's true. I still rarely speak. People forget that I'm there. I fade into the furniture. That bubbly, witty person is figment of my imagination.


Organisation/Remembering Stuff

As a child I was a total off with the pixies space cadet with my head permanently 'up the Faraway Tree'. Nothing has changed as an adult. This is not extremely helpful when you are meant to the person in charge of running a house including three small people. My attention span is worse than the average two year old. Knowing that this is something to do with having Aspergers means I now understand why. However, the problem does not go away. For example, one of the  boys may ask me for some two minute noodles. Dutifully, I go the monumental effort of pouring sachets and boiling water on them, then walk away to wait for the allotted two minutes. Half an hour later, a ravenous child whines:"Where's my noodles?" Oops.

Driving

While I do have a license, I didn't get it until I was 36. At 42 I am still on my P Plates. I am one of those pathetic people who actually drives around for 15 minutes or so, looking for another, easier parking space so I don't have to parallel park. In fact, I haven't done it once since I passed my driving test. I also avoid driving to unfamiliar places, at night and in heavy traffic. In other words, I might as well have never bothered getting a licence. But least I now have photographic ID for those times when we go to an extremely classy RSL club. We are dedicated bogans, after all.

Parenting

When Mr 11 (soon to be Mr 12) was born in 2001, I became I relatively good parent. Surprisingly, since I was a 30 year old person who had zero experience being around babies and children. In fact I had possibly only ever held a baby once or twice for a total of ten minutes. Still, I managed to puree home made food, read bed time stories every night and generally do an okay job. Naturally, in my naivete, I believed this meant that I could only be a better parent to any subsequent children. After all, I now had experience. HA! It turns out that it actually gets harder with more children. Who knew? Second time around I had to factor in that now I not only had a squalling infant, but a demanding toddler as well. My standards dropped. I didn't manage to puree baby food quite so often. I fed Mr9 so much mashed banana and yoghurt as a baby that I think I have permanently turned him off those foods. By the time Mr 4 arrived we slowly but surely progressed to the wonderfully varied diet we now enjoy as a family these days. It consists of two minute noodles, sausages, fish fingers and lumpy mashed potato. Yum.

Medical Stuff

Basically I'm a big scaredy cat about anything of a medical nature. I thought I'd be well and truly over this phobia by now. Wrong. A routine blood test still has me shaking. Even entering a hospital for any reason at all, makes me feel wobbly. I could never have been a nurse. The thing is, as you get older there is a more pressing need to have all sorts of medical stuff attended to. Considering that I'm lucky enough to be in relative good health I should be able to just get over myself and get on with it.

Technology/Blogging

After a year of this blogging  business, I thought I'd most likely become better at it. Sorry folks. Hasn't happened. I continue to clock in a spectacularly underwhelming performance just like a typical lazy 'she'll be right' bogan. I don't have a niche. Or understand anything about RSS or SEO. I thought they were possibly LOL text type talk. Are they? Meh, whatever. I briefly attempted to raise the bar the other day when I noticed a Blogs and PR concern on Twitter on the lookout for Lifestyle Bloggers. I tweeted back that I do, indeed, blog about my bogan lifestyle. No response. Can't think why.

My photography skills are non-existent. I've still never taken a selfie. Instagram is complete mystery to me and likely to remain so. There is no point in even bothering when I am such an abysmal technophobe.  Who wants to see my woeful attempts at photography. On that note, I'm not even going to bother adding images to this post. There is no point.

So basically what I'm saying is, I thought I'd be better at EVERYTHING by now.


I'm very excited to be linking up for the first time ever with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided.  If there is one thing I'm certainly good at, it's lounging around. And I'm getting better at it all the time.

What did you think you would be better at by now?

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War! What Is It Good For?

Hello there. Anzac Day is upon us. While I've never actually attended a dawn service, I do have some very deep thoughts regarding war, and have had ever since I was a little girl. In fact, I wrote a poem about it, when I was a mere ten years old. It is truly heartfelt. That, or just a woeful example of exactly how much Enid Blyton I was reading at the time.  I'm sure if it had been about a cheery subject I would have managed to put in the phrases 'smashing' and 'jolly good' somewhere. Here it is, complete with my spelling mistakes:

DISASTEROUS WAR:

War is a disastrous sight,
War is a beastly fight,
You can hear the blasting,
Oh war is so everlasting,
War is gloom, its such a doom,
I hope it stops very soon.

War is death, it takes away your breath.
War is blood running in a stream,
War is being strictly mean,
If you think war is not a fight,
It's a awful,disatrous, terrible sight,
War is blood pouring, guns roaring.
War is hand grenades flying,
People crying, also dying,
You work all day, in a blood-thirsty way,
War is madness, but if you think
deep down, it's only sadness

Now the war is gone, I hope it's gone
for good because I don't want it back so soon after
all this awful gloom. People
die, cry, fight. Oh I don't want
that destructive sight!
Guns roar, blood pours,
You can't think how people cry,
because their beloved friends did die
Oh I hope the war doesn't
come again
For I really must think of the
lives of those men.

My year 5 poem, dated 28th April, 1981. At the bottom
the teacher wrote: 'Some deep thoughts, try not to
repeat yourself.'  Hmph. Didn't she recognise
my brilliance?

Yep, such brilliance. I'm not sure why I didn't become the next Sylvia Plath after that effort. It's hard to pick out which is my favourite line, with such stunning observations as: War is death, it takes away your breath. Yeah, that is kind of what happens when you die, dear.

War! What is it good for? Absolutely NUTHIN'!! According to Bruce Springsteen and myself, at the mature age of ten.  Genius. I mean, just check out that rhyming: War is gloom, it's such a doom, I hope it stops very soon. Why did I stop when I was on such a roll? I could have went on:

Those guns keep going
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,
I'd rather hear a happy tune,
Before I am a total loon!

OH MY GOD! *gasp* I've still got it! I'm a poet and I didn't know it!! I need to get back to it immediately. Otherwise I am completely wasting my genius. And what does a ten year old, budding,  tragic bogan, genius poet look like? I'm glad you asked. Observe.

My Year 5 school photo, when I was still cute. Sigh.

Thank God my Mum had the foresight to keep my old school books. She must have know I was going to be broke and aimless rich and famous one day. She always said I was special. Now I see why. There is nothing more to add after the blinding brilliance of that poem. I've already left you stunned.

Linking up an oldie but goodie for Life This Week.


What do you think about war? Have you written any awful brilliant poetry?

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